Sick in Bed, final draft

Comfortable,
in fluff and in pillows,
my comforter,
my Comforter,
and a blanket on my window.

Brown-tone light
lazes, hazelnut dreams,
thick cream blankets
make me sigh and I
sleep.

Waking and sleeping
go liquid, and mix,
downed in hot drink
like milk and cinnamon.

You're the blind on my window,
keeping inside in,
and you guard me with kisses
and cups of tea,
never shy of infection,
your soft lips please,
with your cool cheek on mine,
a consistency.

Murmur of voices
pull me out of the dreamed,
push me back ‘til the edges
are crinkled and steamed

and I wake,
yet I sleep,
all sugar and spice;
my bed holds the flavour
of grave and of life,

and I wake to your fingers
lacing through mine:
I’m the chill in my bones;
you’re the warmth in the wine.

I dream like I'm fading
and coming to life:
as my young body aches
like I'm aged, and I sleep,
it's all movement and sitting,
like old man and wife,
and I sleep as if nothing else
matters to me.

Sleepless, I'll sleep
in my half-wakened state
you’ll be there,
you’ll be there,
with a touch at my Wake.

And I’ll wake,
as the mourners pray;
dead never dreamed—
your tender hand holding
the healing I need.

Tucked under covers,
I taste of the Sweet:
A case of you, soothing
my waking and sleep.


January 27, 2009